


Матија

by justkisa



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-08
Updated: 2013-11-08
Packaged: 2017-12-31 21:26:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1036579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justkisa/pseuds/justkisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stevan's nineteen the first time he meets Matija.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Матија

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Takes place in an alternate universe where everyone has the name of their soulmate written on their wrist. 
> 
> 2) Bit of background - Stevan and Matija both came through the youth system at Partizan. Stevan also played for the senior side. They were (I think), for a brief period, there at the same time. They both then (at different times) transferred to Fiorentina.

Stevan’s nineteen the first time he meets Matija. 

It’s a miserable day - gray and cold and wet - the kind of day where the training pitch is waterlogged and muddy. By the time training is over, his socks are so wet it feels like his boots are full of water. He has mud smeared along one leg from the edge of his sock to the hem of his shorts. All he wants to do is go inside and get in a hot shower. 

The route back inside takes him past the pitch where the youth teams train. There’s a group out on it playing a practice game. He can hear shouting and the dull, thunking sound of a ball being kicked. He doesn’t look over, though, because he’s cold and wet and he just wants to get inside. 

Someone shouts something, loud but indistinct, and a ball shoots across his path, bounces off his foot and comes to sludgy stop on the muddy walkway. He stares down at it. It’d been black and white once but it’s so covered in mud and grass that now it’s mostly brown. He hears footsteps then someone says, “Hey!”

Stevan looks up. There’s a kid standing at the edge of the pitch. He’s tall but skinny like his body hasn’t quite caught up to his height. His training top’s wet and stained with mud but it still hangs loosely on him, like it’s a size too big. He has close-cropped brown hair and there’s mud smeared across his face, just under his right cheekbone. “Hey,” he says again and his voice sounds familiar somehow, even though Stevan’s sure he’s never seen the kid before. 

“The ball,” the kid says, “Would you mind?” His voice is deep and a bit raspy and something about the timber of it makes Stevan feel warm despite the wet chill in the air. He has an unaccountable urge to step closer, to reach out and touch the kid, maybe reach up and clean the smudge of mud off his face. “Well?” the kid says. He doesn’t sound impatient exactly, more like expectant almost hopeful. 

“Right,” Stevan says, “Sure.” He kicks the ball up, grabs it and tosses it to the kid who catches it easily. It leaves Stevan’s hands mud-smeared and wet. He wipes them on his shorts. 

“Thanks,” the kid says and he stares at Stevan for a moment, like he’s waiting for Stevan to say something. And Stevan should. He should just say _you’re welcome_ or something but he doesn’t. He’s not sure why. He wants to look at the kid, wants to-- He’s not sure what. “Thanks,” the kid says again, then he’s gone, running back towards his game while Stevan stares after him. He wants to call him back, to say something more, though he’s not sure why. 

Later, when he’s in the shower, watching muddy water swirl around the drain, he can’t shake the feeling that he’s forgotten something important, that he’s left something he was supposed to keep with him behind. 

He thinks about the kid’s face and fiddles with his wristguard. He wants to take it off so he can see the blocky, slightly uneven letters spelling out _Matija_ across his wrist. He doesn’t because they aren’t supposed to - not here. Only players who’ve already found their soulmates are allowed to go without wristguards on the training grounds. But he wants to. He drops his arm to his side and tips his face up into the hot water. 

He forgets about it, about the cold, gray day and the tall, gangly kid with mud on his face whose voice sounds so familiar, until the second time he meets Matija.

***

Stevan’s twenty-two the second time he meets Matija.

It’s at Campini in the cramped hallway just outside the changing room. There’s a club official on either side of him, both in suits, but he’s dressed more casually in a gray hooded sweatshirt and jeans. The harsh fluorescent lights make him look washed out and pale. His shoulders are hunched up and he has his hands shoved into his pockets. He looks uncomfortable. There’s something familiar about him, though, like Stevan’s seen him somewhere before. 

“Stevan,” the official on the right says, “This is Matija Nastasić.” Stevan used to startle every time he heard the name Matija. His heart would start to race, his palms would sweat and he’d start to think _is it now? Is this the right one? Is this my Matija?_ Dozens and dozens of Matijas later he doesn’t react that way any more. Except, this time, he does. Nastasić’s staring at him, like he’s waiting for Stevan to react to his name. And Stevan is. His heart is pounding in his chest, so hard he thinks he can _hear_ it. 

“He’s just joined us,” the official continues, “from your old club.” 

Nastasić is still staring at him and Stevan stares helplessly back. His face feels hot. He’s almost certainly blushing. He hates that. He thinks his hands are shaking. He should say something, he thinks, but he can’t quite find the words. “Matija,” the official says, “this is Stevan Jovetić.” 

Nastasić holds out his hand. “Hello,” he says in Serbian and the sound of his voice jolts something awake inside Stevan, something that buzzes just under his skin. He’s heard his voice before, he thinks, but he doesn’t know where. 

He waits a beat too long to say something, to reach out and take Nastasić’s hand. Nastasić flinches and starts to pull his hand back. Stevan reaches out and snatches it before he can. In his haste, he’s clumsy about it and their hands end up tangled awkwardly together. “Hello,” he says. Nastasić’s hand is warm and a little sweaty. Stevan doesn’t want to let go of it - of him. “Nice to meet you. Welcome.” 

He waits for Nastasić to pull his hand away. He doesn’t. “Thank you,” he says. He’s still staring at Stevan. It’s like he’s trying to memorize Stevan’s face, like he’s trying to see inside him. 

“We were hoping,” the other official says, “You would show him around, look after him for today?” 

Stevan had forgotten they weren’t alone. “Okay,” he says, “sure.” He can’t make himself look away from Nastasić as he speaks. They’re still holding hands. 

Nastasić blinks. He looks confused - a bit dazed. Stevan wonders how much Italian, if any, he understands. “They asked,” he says in Serbian, “if I would help you out, show you around. I will, if you like?” 

Nastasić smiles. Stevan wants to reach out and trace his fingers along the upward curve of his mouth. “Yes. Please,” Nastasić says, all in a rush, like he can’t say it fast enough. He’s still holding Stevan’s hand. 

“Okay,” Stevan says. He squeezes Nastasić’s hand. He looks away from Nastasić, forces himself to, so he can look at one of the officials and say, “All right. I’ll look after him if you want.” 

The official’s gaze flicks down towards Stevan’s and Nastasić’s entangled hands. Stevan should tug his hand free but he doesn’t want to. “Good,” the official says, “You can take him in to get changed then. He’s training with you, at least for today.” 

“Okay,” Stevan says and turns back towards Nastasić. Nastasić is still staring at him. He has this amazed sort of half smile on his face. Stevan smiles at him and tugs on his hand. “You’re coming with me.” 

“Yes,” Nastasić says. He says it like it’s a certainty, like wherever Stevan goes he’ll go too, like it can’t be any other way. 

“C’mon,” Stevan says. He steps forward tugging Nastasić along with him. 

He doesn’t let go of Nastasić’s hand until they walk through the changing room door. 

When they walk out onto the training pitch, the sun is shining, hot and bright, but when he glances over at Nastasić he shivers and thinks of a slate gray sky and the wet slap of rain against his face. It doesn’t make any sense especially since the smile Nastasić gives him shines brighter than the sun.

***

When training’s over for the day, Stevan’s not sure what to do. He’s had Nastasić by his side for the whole afternoon, hovering right next to him, close enough to touch. And Stevan wants to touch him, has taken every excuse to put his hands on him.

Now training’s done, he’s changed and ready to go and so is Nastasić but Stevan doesn’t want to leave. Leaving means being parted from Nastasić and he can’t bring himself to do it. Nastasić’s made no move to leave. He’s just standing there, right at Stevan’s side, so close his elbow keeps bumping into Stevan’s.

“So,” Stevan says, “I--” Nastasić smiles at him and looks at him with such hope that Stevan can’t say goodbye. “Come home with me,” he blurts.

“Yes,” Nastasić says with that same certainty he’d had earlier, “Okay.”

They’re half way to Stevan’s before Stevan thinks to ask, “Should you call someone, I mean, is someone waiting for you?”

“Ah,” Nastasić says, sounding a bit abashed, “My parents, I should...” 

“Oh,” Stevan says, “I, uh, I didn’t mean to keep you from them, I mean, are you sure you don’t--”

“I wanted,” Nastasić says, putting his hand on Stevan’s knee, “to come with you.” 

“I’m glad you did,” Stevan says.

Nastasić pats his knee. “Me too.” He pauses. “I should call them though.”

***

Once Stevan has Nastasić in his house, he’s not sure what to do with him. He hadn’t thought past wanting to have him _with_ him. “So,” he says finally, “Ah, can I get you something...”

Nastasić cuts him off, “Jovetić--”

“Stevan,” Stevan interrupts, “you should--”

Nastasić smiles. “Stevan,” he says. He reaches out and touches Stevan’s wrist. He runs his fingers along Stevan’s wristguard. It’s not a done thing but Stevan doesn’t say a word, doesn’t pull away. Nastasić wraps his hand around Stevan’s wrist and squeezes. “How,” he says, squaring his shoulders like he’s bracing for a blow, “do you spell it?”

Stevan pulls his wrist out of Nastasić grasp. He flinches. “Hey,” Stevan says, “No, just--” He reaches out and takes Nastasić’s wrist in his hands. He pulls at the fastenings of Nastasic’s wristguard. It’s not something you do, not ever, but it feels like the right thing to do, like it’s something he _has_ to do. And Nastasić lets him, just stands there and lets him tug and pull until _finally_ Nastasić’s wristguard falls away. Stevan lets it fall to the floor. He turns Nastasić’s arm and cradles his wrist in his hands. 

His name is written across Nastasić’s wrist in the same cramped, spiky letters he sees every time he puts pen to paper. He slowly traces the letters - _S-t-e-v-a-n_. Nastasić - Matija, _his Matija_ \- shudders and makes a low, almost wounded sound. “Like this,” Stevan says and his voice shakes, “Just like this.” 

“Show me,” Matija says, “Stevan, _please_.” 

Stevan presses his thumb to his name on Matija’s wrist then lets go. He starts pulling at his own wristguard with shaking fingers. He barely has it off before Matija’s snatching at his wrist, pulling it up so he can look. “This,” Matija says, his voice full of awe, “This is me.” He looks up at Stevan then back down at Stevan’s wrist. “It’s me. It’s me. It’s--” He sounds giddy. “Stevan,” he says and the way he says it, it’s like he thinks Stevan is a holy, precious thing. Stevan’d never imagined he’d inspire such awe, never imagined anything like this. 

Matija tugs him forward. He pulls so hard that Stevan stumbles and falls into his chest. As soon as they touch, as soon as they’re pressed together, it’s like something clicks together inside Stevan, like something he’s been missing settles into place. Matija steadies him, hands on Stevan’s hips. “Can I,” he says.

“Anything,” Stevan says, “Matija, anything you want.” 

Matija kisses him and it’s graceless and fumbling but Stevan can’t imagine anything better. Stevan kisses him back, rides out Matija’s passionate enthusiasm and gentles the kiss into something more refined, something slow and exploring. They kiss until Stevan can’t breathe, until he feels like his knees are going to buckle. And, when they have to part, he rests his forehead against Matija’s and breathes against his mouth because he can’t bear for them to be any farther apart. 

“Stevan,” Matija says, “I--I can’t believe-- I always, I hoped, but I-- It’s really you?”

“It’s me,” Stevan says, kissing him again, “and you. From now on, okay? It’s me and you.” 

Matija shudders. He grabs Stevan and pulls him close. He buries his face in Stevan’s neck, like he can’t get close enough, like he’s trying to burrow inside him. Stevan wants to tell him it’s all right, that he’s already so deep inside Stevan that nothing will ever tear him out. “Yes,” Matija says, “Me and you.”

***

Later, much later, Stevan makes them dinner and they eat it in Stevan’s bed, pressed side to side, leg to leg, because sitting at the table in the kitchen would mean sitting too far apart.

The bright sunshine of the afternoon has given way to clouds and rain. They sit together and watch the rain slide down Stevan’s bedroom windows. Stevan listens to Matija breathe, feels his own breath catch the rhythm of Matija’s, match it.

“I,” Matija says, “I always thought it was you. From the first time I saw you.” 

Stevan smiles and nudges him. “So, since this afternoon?”

“No,” Matija says and he sounds a bit hurt. Stevan doesn’t like that, doesn’t ever want Matija to hurt, not for any reason. “Longer. I--” He pauses. “It doesn’t matter.”

Stevan watches the rain slide down the window pane and remembers a cold, gray day and a kid with a mud-smeared face standing on the edge of a football pitch. “It--it--” he says hesitantly, “was raining then, too, wasn’t it?”

Matija sucks in a breath. “Yes,” he says.

“You had,” Stevan says, thinking of how, on that wet, raw day he’d wanted to reach out and touch the kid with the mud on his face - Matija - without knowing why, “Mud on your face. You’d lost the ball and--” 

“You threw it back to me,” Matija murmurs, “I, uh, I knew who you were and I thought, you stared at me for so long, I thought you’d-- But...” He stops and he sounds so forlorn. Stevan takes his hand and squeezes. “You didn’t say anything.”

“I’m sorry,” Stevan says, “I-- That day, when I saw you, I wanted to touch you, I didn’t know why, but I did. I, uh, I wanted to clean the mud off your face. But I--I didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know what it meant.” 

Matija presses closer to him and squeezes his hand. “It’s okay,” he says, “you--we figured it out eventually, didn’t we?” 

Stevan lifts Matija’s hand and presses a kiss to the back of it. “Yes,” he says, “we did.”


End file.
